


Recollection

by bellestrashprince



Series: Stories of The Tower [3]
Category: The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, F/M, Reincarnation, Tudor Era, anne boleyn x henry viii, stories of the tower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-24 00:31:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6135280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellestrashprince/pseuds/bellestrashprince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Anne Boleyn and Henry Tudor find themselves back at the Tower on 13th February, only to meet an old friend.</p><p>'“Look at me, Kitty,” she asks of her, and Kitty lifts her head from Anne’s shoulder and does as she’s told. “I do not look the same as I did, nor do you. But our eyes, your eyes, Kitty, remind me that many eras are just the same as others. Just different faces.”'</p><p>I MADE A PLAYLIST FOR THIS STORY, MAKE SURE TO CHECK IT OUT:</p><p>http://8tracks.com/queensorders/life-birth-death</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recollection

The soft rocking of the train almost makes Anne fall asleep. The ride to Tower Hill is quite long coming from their shared home in Belgravia. She and Henry have almost been together for a year now, and it is with a tingling sensation in her stomach that they sit side by side, holding hands, on the train back to where they started. Perhaps it is as a way to remind themselves of who they are, Anne thinks as she tugs at Henry’s sleeve where he’s fallen asleep in his seat beside her. The last few months have been a whirlwind of an affair. She thinks herself stupid for not realising that of course he would be in a relationship with a woman called Katherine, married even, and with a child called Mary. Most of the things in her life is a constant mess now, but Henry ensures her that he will not make the same mistake as before. ‘This is the 21st century after all, not the 16th’, he says. And it’s true, the game is different this time. There is no Duke of Norfolk nor Earl of Rochford to make Anne’s decisions for her this time around, and Henry has yet to meet her sister Mary in this life. In fact, he has not met any of her family, nor she his. Possibly because Anne is terrified of what might happen if they remember.

Henry is a jealous man, as he has always been, but Anne makes sure he is aware of their boundaries. He does not appreciate the catcalls or the looks she gets from people on the street, nor her ex boyfriends, but then again, neither does she. But he is extremely generous, same as he was when he was King of England, and spoils Anne beyond her dreams. He takes her out to the fanciest, most romantic restaurants in all of London, whisks her away to tropical islands and urban cities in Europe and Asia. He’s even promised to take her to Hever Castle for a romantic getaway. At the thought of her childhood home, Anne sinks back, closes her eyes, and falls asleep to the soft sound of trees swaying in the summer breeze and the larks singing softly in her ears, as well as the familiar feeling of the green grass of Hever tickling her as it sways from side to side, rubbing itself against her body.

When she wakes up Henry’s brushing a stray hair from her forehead, and then strokes her cheek. She smiles at the sensation.

“It’s our stop now, Anne,” he says and her eyes flicker as to adjust to the fluorescent lighting of the carriage. Open, shut, open, shut, until finally they focus on him and Henry can’t help but smile at this creature, this woman he is so infatuated with and also intimidated by, though he would never admit to it. Anne rises from her seat with a level of grace other women could only wish to God to acquire. It’s like everyone else is in a trance, but she floats with long strides, oozes confidence, hips moving in rhythm with the woman on the speaker announcing; “this is Tower Hill, change here for the Tower of London”. This, her right hip moves and bounces, is, left hip, Tower, right hip again, Hill, left hip pops. Henry can’t take his eyes of off her as she moves gracefully and swiftly as a cat until they’re both out the door and they close behind them.

They walk the same path she walked a year ago, but this time Anne is not alone, and she thinks it to be comforting. She knows he is just one step behind her, if she’d look over her shoulder she’d see him smiling at her. But in a way she’s scared as well. The very first time she walked this path, old life and new combined, he’d been with her as well, or at least joined her the rest of the trip to Westminster Abbey. And everyone knows what happened after that. So Anne slows down her pace, lets Henry’s step fall beside her instead of behind, and with shaking hands weaves her fingers with his. They’re soft from the moisturising he does every morning and every night before he goes to bed, and smell faintly of pomegranate, reminding Anne that his soon to be former wife will never really leave him, and fit perfectly in her hers.

Their footsteps echo inside the tunnel, louder than the footsteps of the 2 million others that come to visit the Tower every year, and their feet fall harder against the cobblestones because on their shoulders they carry the weight of history. On the way out and into the light, Anne catches a glimpse at the picture of her former self that is hung on the wall to her left. There’s too much colour, she thinks, and her eyes are too dark in it. They don’t shine the same way they do in real life. She smiles through the lump in her throat that reminds her that she may be making a terrible mistake, letting history repeat itself, throwing herself under the bus just to be with Henry. She’s sure that this time around her fate won’t be as harsh nor terrifying as before, and George won’t be harmed either, she’s made sure that won’t happen. But she believes with all her heart that this, whatever it is, won’t last. Because when Anne looks at Henry she knows that they weren’t meant to be together, that the universe is doing everything to keep them apart but that they fight their way back to each other time and time again, like a person holding a positive and a negative magnet and pushing them together, only to be knocked off path.

The line to buy the tickets is cut short, Henry’s allowed to go first simply because of his wealth. He pays for their tickets with a somewhat grim look on his face, and she looks up at him and studies his facial features. The freckles on his cheeks, his long eyelashes, the stubble that he’s letting grow out, he is handsome, even more so than last time, but he looks tired, bitter. Very much like this situation, she thinks. Here they are, to celebrate their almost-anniversary by going back to where they were ‘reconnected’, as Henry calls it, and they’re both grim and tiresome, annoyed at the situation but completely enchanted by one another. Why does it have to be here, Anne asks herself rhetorically, why does it have to be this dreadful place?

They weave through the crowd, her arm linked around his, undoubtedly the most striking couple there, and walk through the gates, past the gift shops and information signs, past Traitor’s Gate even though Anne wants to stop and look at it this time. The first thing Henry wants to do, of course, is visit the crown jewels. When she does not wish to join him he goes by himself and lets her wander around. She goes into the White Tower, glances at his old armour and chuckles silently to herself, biting her thumb as she does so. When some strange man walks up to her to ask her out, Anne gently tells him that no, she does not wish to see him for drinks tonight, and that yes, she does have a boyfriend, and leaves to go to the gift shop downstairs in what used to be the torture chamber of the Tower. There she asks the cashier for the best book on Henry VIII and she smiles, showing her towards the section where there is a couple of books written by Eric Ives. As her hand stretches out towards a book called The Other Boleyn Girl (Anne thinks she could get a great joy in reading and catching up on her sister’s life as she lived on after her death) the woman warns her not to buy it.

“Why not?” Anne asks her.

“Philippa Gregory tends to not be too kind on Anne Boleyn,” she smiles apologetically. “Is she your favourite of his wives?” she asks, gesturing towards the pearl ‘B’ necklace that Anne is clutching hard in her left hand. She’d barely noticed that she’d grabbed it.

“No,” she says, for she cannot favour herself in that kind of way, not over the other women that Henry would come to ruin for the sake of his own self-spite. “I’ve always been more interested in Elizabeth.” The smirk that plays at her lips is not real, it does not reach her dark eyes, because Anne is sure she will never see her daughter again, that she and Henry will not have children nor get married.

So she heads to the register, pearl necklace and Eric Ives book on herself and another on her daughter in her grasp. As she waits for the machine to approve of her payment she casts a glance over her shoulder and catches a glimpse at all of the DVD’s on the bookshelf behind her. Without giving it much thought she grabs hold of a bunch of them, mostly the one’s with the striking brunette that’s supposed to play her on the cover, and asks to buy them too, if it’s not to late, do forgive me.

With a brand new plastic bags swinging from side to side on her forearm, Anne walks to the nearest window where she can catch her own reflection and puts on the necklace. It’s tight around her neck, the pearls straining across her Adam’s apple, the golden ‘B’ dangling in the place just inbetween where her collarbones meet. She feels empowered by its presence around her neck, as if a piece of her that she’d thought she’d lost forever has been recollected, and she breathes heavily, breasts heaving up and down, and with a spring in her step and a straight back walks towards her execution site.

Kitty Howard is standing with her back towards Anne, the February chill clinging to her brown hair, green eyes fixated at her name etched onto the glass, covered in a light dusting of snowflakes. Anne knows it’s her right away, she does not even need to see her face. She stands out against the crowd, the only minor who isn’t there with family, the only one with a hunched back and toes pointed inwards at each other. She never met her, Katheryn, in her old life, she’d died way before she’d had the chance to, but she can remember her features from the endless history books she’s read all her life. She walks up to her, ever so sightly so as not to scare her, and gives her the saddest look of pity she can muster to send through her eyes. Of course, Anne thinks. How could she have forgotten? She is not alone, not ever. Kitty went through the same thing as her all those years ago, and is now going through what Anne felt a year ago.

“Katheryn…” her voice stutters, shudders even. She’s afraid of her reaction.

Her head turns towards Anne, eyes wide open like plates, glistening with tears. Anne reaches out for her hand, slowly as if not to conjure ill feelings for herself. Katheryn looks into her eyes, then her outstretched hand, until they finally settle on the two necklaces hanging from her neck, the gold and the pearl one. Without hesitation Kitty throws herself at her, clawing her hands around her neck and cries onto her shoulder, and Anne sheds a tear too. For all the hurt she’s caused to the people around her, for all the hurt she’s caused herself. And now she’s in this endless cycle, be born, live, die, be born, live, die, over and over again, each time making the same mistake and still feeling as if it was worth it. But this time around she wonders whether it really is, not for herself but for Kitty, for her brother George, for Anne of Cleves and Katherine of Aragon, but for Elizabeth most of all. Anne smiles through the tears. Oh, Lizzy, her gloriana, her only joy in what had been a good life wasted, the light at the end of the tunnel. She shall never see her daughter again, for she is too worthy of glory, of happiness, of everything that she rightfully deserves, to be cursed to live the same life all over and over again. She repeats Katheryn’s name in her ear once more.

“Kitty,” she corrects her, and Anne only briefly realises that she is American.

“Kitty,” she stutters again the words hanging from her tongue, waiting to be said. “you and I were both born in the 16th century and we both died in the 16th century, never forget that. But we are here now, somehow God has brought us back here, to this place, to live.” Anne closes her mouth, still thinking of what to say next, how she could possibly cheer poor Kitty Howard up, how she could in some way explain to her what is happening and why.

“Look at me, Kitty,” she asks of her, and Kitty lifts her head from Anne’s shoulder and does as she’s told. “I do not look the same as I did, nor do you. But our eyes, your eyes, Kitty, remind me that many eras are just the same as others. Just different faces.” Katheryn’s eyes flicker slowly, eyelashes batting away the rest of her falling tears as the roll down her cheeks, but she looks more calm now, her breathing not as rushed as before. She turns her head from side to side, as if checking to see who can hear her.  
“Henry,” she almost cannot bear to say his name. “is he…”  
“Yes,” Anne says with great struggle. She hates to break the heart of this young girl. “Yes, Henry is here.” Kitty’s eyes widen in panic. “And Katherine and Mary, and God knows who else.”  
“Oh, God,” Kitty says with a shaky exhale. A single tear rolls down her cheek, and Anne is reminded how different their opinions of him are. To her he is the young, dashing, passionate lover that she lost all too long ago, but Katheryn only sees him as the overweight, terrifying, old man he would later become. A tyrant even. “oh, God.”  
“Don’t worry,” she says to her, giving her false hope, “he will not see you, I’ll make sure of it. Just leave now, and don’t come back. Live your life, learn of your old mistakes and don’t make them again.” She nudges her towards the exit. “Go now, Kitty. He’ll be here any moment now.”

And on unsteady legs, tears rolling down her cheeks like a constant waterfall, Katheryn Howard disappears out of the Tower and Anne can’t help but feel that she may have just saved a life. Perhaps she was selfish to send her away, begging her to forget, perhaps she simply did it to give her and Henry more time, but she can proudly tell herself now that history is, in fact, not repeating itself. She’s making changes all on her own, just to make sure she doesn’t screw it up this time.

But Henry’s walking out of the venue and out on the cobble, a thin paper guide-book with a map of the Tower in his left hand and the roses they bought in the right. He strides towards her with a smug smile, jacket hanging from his shoulders. He gives her a kiss on the cheek, then another passionately on the lips.

“So… Did you enjoy it?” Anne asks, trying to sound as if she did not just meet his would-be old flame, or new flame depending on how you see it.

“No,” he says and gives her a peck on the lips, “that’s not what I want anymore.”

“What do you want then?” Another kiss, this time on her nose. Henry gives her a crooked smile before looping his arm around her shoulders and leading her towards the chapel of St Peter ad Vincula where they will place the roses on her grave. There’s something sick about that, Anne knows it, but she thinks of it as more of a goodbye to the people they used to be, rather than remembering. It starts to snow just before they walk into the chapel, and Anne thinks of Katheryn Howard, all alone in the world, and decides that she’ll take one of her own roses and place it on her grave. After all, she deserves it.

**Author's Note:**

> I did it again! Wrote another one of these since it got requested. Some of the facts aren't true, but I'll change them as soon as I get the time. Hope you enjoy this one as well!


End file.
